


First Song

by Taelle



Series: At the Edge of the Sea [1]
Category: The Silmarillion - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, Original Character(s), Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-19
Updated: 2011-01-19
Packaged: 2017-10-14 21:45:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/153779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Taelle/pseuds/Taelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A boy from a fishermen's village hears a new song.</p>
            </blockquote>





	First Song

_Time and place indefinite_

He wasn't a complete newcomer, not any more, and went out with the men in all kinds of weather. Still, it was the longest voyage they ever made, for the herring avoided the usual places, and nobody wanted to return home empty.

So they all were tired, men and boys, and women who almost despaired waiting for them. They unloaded the boats wearily, making the last effort to get everything secure and exchanging quiet jokes, glad to be home at last. And that was when he heard the song.

He had the best ear in all three fishing villages along this shore. Sometimes it even made him useful, able to hear faint rumblings of faraway storm before others. But that was not what he hungered for. He strained his ears for music, scraps of melodies, occasional new songs that a visitor brought to this half-empty land - the old ones he knew by heart already.

But he never, ever heard songs like this - not even at the great fair where they went last year when the fishing was good. The boy knew he'd remember that trip as long as he lived. He could not stop gaping at everything, and managed to learn six new songs. Father laughed at him, saying that one day he'd forget eating and drinking for a song, but the girls started following him everywhere, giggling stupidly and asking him to sing.

He did not like to sing. In his head the melody was perfect in its freedom, but through his mouth it came out wobbly, mangled and just plain wrong. And now, frozen in place and making desperate gestures to quieten his friends horsing around, the boy thought he'll never even try again.

He came to himself when two fishermen with a heavy load pushed him aside roughly. Nors made a face and laughed, and father was calling him already. But the song was still here, a faint sigh of beauty brought by the wind.

Still, the chores had to be done, and he hurried through them as much as he could. Once finished,he looked at his father pleadingly.

"Can I leave? I'm done here..."

After a careful inspection the permission was given, though with evident surprise at the fact that anyone could wish to hurry anywhere but home, to dinner and bed.

"Youth..." his mother chuckled to his father. "Didn't you use to take me to all-night dances and then sail out in the morning?"

But he did not listen any more, already running, weaving carefully among boats, fish and fishermen till he was out of the village, the interfering voices left behind. Ahead were grey-blue sky and blue-grey sea, and the strip of tide under his feet.

They did not hear, the boy understood suddenly. They still did not, could not hear that - or his father could very well make him stay. Already he grumbled about growing up and preparing to work enough to support a family of his own...

He shook his head. That was back in the village, and therefore not important now. Only sea mattered, the first and shallowest beginnings of it making little splashes under his feet, and the song coming closer, enveloping him in quiet sadness that seemed separate from any ordinary sorrow or worry, just a world of its own.

And finally the boy saw him ahead. The singer was approaching along the coast, a tall dark-haired man in worn clothes. He did not seem to notice a stranger waiting for him, only looking at the sea and the sand and singing in a strange language that must sound like a song even when spoken.

The boy ran closer, then stopped, feeling that the noise from his feet was intolerable, and just stood there, staring in fascination.

The singer approached, and his looks were no surprise to the boy. It was as if he sent himself ahead with his voice, so that any listener would be warned of his beauty and the sadness wrapped around him like a cloak.

Where did he come from? There were other villages further to the north, but the singer did not look like he was from there. He seemed to exist in the world where there were no other people, only cold sea and heavy grey sky and the line of tide for him to follow forever.

Now the boy could see details of him, the unusual shape of grey eyes, the heavy wave of his hair, his hands... His hands! He swallowed suddenly, seeing those hands, still beautiful but so horribly burned. His own hand moved, as if wanting to touch, to caress, to make it better...

He must have made a sound, because suddenly the singer looked at him - and fell silent. "No," the boy whispered involuntarily, "no..."

The singer stepped closer, looking at him as if the boy was indeed the first living person he saw in his life.

"What are you called?" he asked suddenly, his voice still soft and melodious. He pronounced the words slowly and precisely, like they were foreign for him. The boy decided that his native language must have been that of his song. But what language could it be? Everyone around spoke the same tongue...

He blushed, remembering that he did not answer the question. "My name is Alder, sir."

"Alder?" the singer repeated with a small smile. "So your people name children for trees, too..."

"Um, yes..." Alder wanted to answer, maybe to ask something, but all his questions died on his lips, and he could only look and remember this forever. "Your song, sir... It was..."

"My song..." the singer repeated slowly and stood straighter. "Don't call me sir, Alder. Don't call me anything. Better go home and forget about me."

With those words he turned and went on along the tide, faster and more resolutely than before. And silently. Alder stared at his back till he was out of earshot and then whispered "Forget about you?"

He stepped towards the dry sand and sat down, hugging his knees and smiling to himself. Where did the singer think he came from? He must have been a long time without people around, or he'd realize that he was going towards Alder's village. And Alder's mother never refused a stranger hospitality...

Alder stood up and stretched. He'd better warn mother. The shoreline here went in a curve, and if he ran across past the old trees, he'd be at the village before their guest.


End file.
